


Can't Stop

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Destiel/ Cockles Chapter Series [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean-Centric, Elvis - Freeform, Gen, Impala, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Mark of Cain, Milk, Porn, Post-Episode: s10e09 The Things We Left Behind, fan fiction, twist and shout references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3002522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's a monster. Everything good that's happened was just the eye of the storm; and now he's swimming in blood again.<br/>He needs to distract himself.<br/>He needs to try and pull away from the inevitable<br/>He can't do the things that once brought him so much joy ... food and sex. It's too carnal.<br/>He has to turn to something different, something unreal and unattainable. Dean thinks back to the play, and the version of his life that Marie created ... that's the furthest thing from the truth that he knows.<br/>Dean opens up his lap top and begins searching through the fan fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> (This fic is TWO chapters long)
> 
> This story will only make sense if you've read Twist and Shout. Please let me know what you think!

           The bunker feels cold, but Dean is thankful to be back ... back somewhere where he can be locked down if needed.  He hadn’t spoken much the entire drive home. After they dropped off Cas and Claire at a motel, there was a thickness to the air. Dean choked on the words he wanted to say to Sam. He wanted to talk to him—about the mark, about what it kept doing to him ... _hell,_ he actually wanted to talk about his _feelings_.  He and Sam have been so much closer lately; closer than they’ve been in years. Dean didn’t want to ruin that by _not_ talking; but then again, the mark would ruin it either way. It probably already has. The look in his brother’s eyes when he skidded towards him on knees, slipping in the pools of blood that Dean had spilled. _Human_ blood. Skeethy, depraved humans, but _humans_ none the less. Why the hell does there always have to be _something?_ Something to screw everything up. Something to make Dean perfectly aware of what a fuck up he is? There always has to be some giant, flashing sign outside his window screaming _“They’re all better off without you!”_ They would be too. Dean knows that. The whole drive home—that’s all he could think about.

           Once inside the bunker, Dean heads off to his room, claiming to be tired, claiming to be _okay_ ; but instead of sleeping, he’ll clean his guns. He can sharpen the demon blade ... he can record the strongest exorcisms he knows. He can get everything ready … everything ready for Sam to take him out if necessary … if there’s no _other_ option. The mark mocks him as he starts—peeking out from under his sleeve. It hisses and yelps. It leers and snickers. _Do you really think some guns will hurt me?_ _No_ —nothing will hurt it. The only thing that can is currently residing with the king of hell. But even with it so far away, Dean can still feel the first blade in his hand. He feels the power humming through his veins. All his nerves scream. They want to feel blood rushing over them again. Four tiny humans weren’t enough. He needs _twenty_. He needs a thousand! _Fuck!_ He _has_ to stop thinking about this! Perhaps, prepping Sam isn’t the way to go ... not tonight at least. Hell, maybe _not ever_. He doesn’t want Sam to go through all that again. Sammy _can’t_ go through that again. Dean saw what it did to his baby brother. He saw how much he hurt when Dean went all “dark eyes”. And Dean almost hurt him too ... he nearly _killed_ him. No, even if he had the perfect way to take himself out right here, _right now_ —he couldn’t make Sammy deal with the after math.

_Cas._

           Dean seems lighter just by thinking his name. _Cas promised to help._ That guy could always help. For years, that’s all he’s done. Dean feels more guilt plague him as he recaps their friendship in his head. Even in the times Cas has failed, Dean could rely on him; and what did _he_ do in return? He called Cas a “child” and a “baby”. He sent him away with those words still fresh off his tongue; knowing that he was really only ever talking to himself. But he was always too much of a coward to admit it. For every little bump on the head and scraped knee, he went crying to the angel. Now, here he is again—needing the guy to clean up his mess. Dean slumps back onto his bed, letting a heavy sigh tumble from his lips. But things are different for _Cas_ now _._ Who knows what he’s going to do about Claire; but if the guy is anything, he’s loyal to his charge—and _damn_ if he didn’t make Claire his charge now. Dean sighs and scrubs his hand down his face, still feeling the slight stick of blood on his fingers. He slides the small arsenal he had assembled over to the other side of his bed, eventually climbing under the covers and wrapping himself up. He thinks about his best friend a little more.  He really wishes he didn’t have to put this on him either, not after everything they’ve been through. The angel didn’t need to bare this weight along with the weight of a teenage girl; but he still has some mojo in him. He’s stronger than Sammy, and he’s the only one Dean has left. The guy has taken on heavenly wars since the dawn of time—if anyone can handle killing off one bastard, little human, it’d be Castiel.

           The clock on his wall drags like the hands are powering through mud. Dean can hear Sam in the study, flipping through books and muttering to himself. He is either researching the mark or trying to find some way to help Cas get his own grace back; or maybe even find a place for Claire to go permanently. _Good ol’ Sammy_. Always thinking of everyone else ... and here _he_ is, hold up in his room, drowning in his pathetic “woe-is-me” _bullshit_. He needs to get his mind off of things. He needs to try and think of something happy. The mark hasn’t cut him _completely_ to pieces ... _not yet_. He’s still human— _sort of_. Dean can’t pout through the little good-time he has left. He slides further into the warmth of the heavy blanket, trying to think of the last point he felt _truly_ happy. Amazingly, he finds he doesn’t have to reach that far back. _No_ , only a month ago to that stupid musical those kids put on. _That Calliope bitch was a piece of work_ , but _those kids_ ... he wasn’t ashamed that those damn kids got to him. They were pretty funny too. Dean had genuinely laughed quite a few times through that whole ordeal. _Shit,_ that Marie sure had him pegged on some things! Dean hates to admit it, but her songs and the script she wrote could be pretty spot on in places ...  minus the space, and robot heads ... and _that damn_ subtext!

 _What was it?_ _Deestiel?_ _Destiel?_ _Whatever the fuck she said_. The thought actually makes him chuckle again. _Him and Cas?_ _People actually believe that shit?_ He figures it’s slightly better than a bunch of people wanting him and _Sam_ to get together— _slightly_. Dean closes his eyes a little, letting the memories of the play flood his brain, pushing back the red and the taste of metal in his mouth. The silly sets, the songs … _fake Sam, fake Cas_ … the real smiles on their faces. The real smile on _his_ face. He sighs when he thinks about the purple goo that exploded on the crowd. Those idiots loved it. _Man, what it must be like to think that kind of shit is only special effects._ He starts to drift off to sleep, thinking about the fake amulet that the girls gave him; and the scarecrow-thing that flung him across the stage. _That thing was nasty._ Dean wishes he had been the one to take it out ... save Marie the therapy later on. Yeah, he should’ve been the one to stab it. He could have cut it to pieces. He could have ripped its head off. Calliope too. He could have gutted the bitch—watched her eyes go dark as her insides poured over his fingers. He can smell the blood  ... he feels her flesh snap with his bite. _God!_ He wishes he could have been the one to ...  _No! No, no, no!_

           Dean yanks himself from the sheets. He can’t be thinking of that shit! _Damnit!_ He needs to get his mind off _killing._ He needs something to overtake his senses. _Anything!_ His closed laptop catches his eye. Dean shoves off the mattress and fumbles over to the desk chair. _Perhaps a little release will do some good_. He dances his fingers along the top of the computer before flipping it open. The screen turns on, and he squints against the bright white of the background. In a moment, he has a browser open. He types the letter ‘B’ and auto fill takes care of the rest. Soon, busty Asian women are flaunting their assets in every corner of his screen. He scrolls down, looking at all the thumbnails, trying to find a particularly, delicious clip. A sweet young thing catches his eye. “ _Amber wants you to play with her”_ it says in bubbly, pink letters.

           “I _need_ to play, Amber” he grunts, quickly clicking on the link.

           The video begins and soon, the young girl is slinking into view; and she _is_ young. She almost looks _too_ young. Dean feels the slight bulge in his pants, flatten again. He clicks the back button, not wanting to see any more of the girl who looks like she could be Claire’s age. He makes another attempt, but as he siphons through two more pages of gifs, he finds that every single girl looks more and more like a child—they all look sad. They look forced, like the ones those demons took and pushed into “working” for them. _God damnit!_ He can’t even turn to porn anymore! He slams his laptop shut and pushes out of his chair. The room starts to shrink as he paces back and forth. He has to get away from the carnal—that’s all he’s been thinking about lately … sex, food, _blood._ He needs to be more than the animal the mark is making him out to be. _He needs to hold onto his humanity._

 _Humanity_. The word seems so weighted now. Ever since Cas came into his life, he has looked at humanity differently. It’s something more than just what humans _have_ —it can be earned. Benny had it. _Hell,_ he had more of it than Dean has now. And Cas … well, Cas almost doesn’t even qualify. He’s better than humanity and all those other labels for _good_ and _just._ He has proven himself better than God; more reliable than death … he doesn’t possess the flaws that come with humanity. He’s just _Cas._ It’s taken him too long to see that. _Shit_ , it was probably that play that made him realize it completely … the angel is more than just his family. He’s the better version of _everything_.

           Dean lets his mind wander back to the girls’ production and fake-Cas. The girl who played him did a great job with his innocence. She pegged him and his naivety; just like the Dean-girl had _him_ pegged. _Damn, Marie did good_ he thinks again, _too good._ What did she call his actual life when he told her about it? _‘Some of the worst fanfiction’ she’s ever heard?_ He smirks. If only it _were_ fiction. _Hell,_ probably the only thing furthest from truth any more is any version of his life that ends well. Sadly, the _worst_ part of what she said is true … _fiction_ would be a blessing. He looks at his laptop again, feeling the wisps of an idea start to lick at his mind. _He needs to hold on to his humanity … what’s more human than imagination?_ He’s tried reading to distract himself before, but he can’t read _other_ stories. He knows that there’s too much truth in myth and mystery. _Love stories_ —well, he just doesn’t believe in love. No, there’s no use reading other books; but if he reads about himself … about happy versions of his own life through other people’s eyes, well, maybe he can actually imagine something that’s _not_ true. Maybe he can actually let his mind wander into fantasy and the unbelievable.

***

            Two hours in and he’s still searching. He would have never believed there was so much fan fiction about _his_ life! _God,_ and so much of it _is gay!_ He wants to use his imagination, but _not that way._ Dean nearly stops after the seventh story he reads turns out to either be too close to his life as it is, or too filled with incestuous smut.

            “What the fuck am I doing?” he grumbles to himself, taking a peek at the clock in the corner of his screen. It’s three in the morning and he is reading porn-filled stories probably written by teenagers. He has a lot of issues, but this _has_ to be a new low. He reaches up to close his lap top when another story catches his eye. It’s not the description or the title that peaks his interest, but simply, the amount of people who have actually read and commented on the thing.

            “Over _five hundred thousand?_ Seriously?”

            Despite his better judgment, he clicks on the link—curious as to what all the fuss is about. The first thing he reads is a date.

 

>  “ _April, 1965._ ”

           

           “Well … it’s certainly not going to be realistic.”

            He continues to read; feeling a little uneasy when he finds it’s from Cas’s point of view. Dean can’t really speak for the guy, so seeing someone else try is a little unnerving; but he can’t help but be intrigued. There has always been a part of him that’s wanted to peek inside the angel’s messy head. It had to be interesting in there—all those memories, since the dawn of time. Dean knows that this story will most likely be _nothing_ like the real Castiel’s brain, but it’s enough to keep him reading.

            He reads. He reads and he groans. He reads and he rubs his eyes with the calloused pads on his fingers. He sighs when the fictional version of him and Cas finally kiss. It’s not what he would normally want to spend his time looking at—not by a _long shot_ , but these two share their names and not much else in his opinion, so he can feel justified when he admits … the moment is kind of endearing. He reaches the end of the first chapter, yawning a little and wondering if he should continue. There’s only twelve chapters—given, the first one _was_ long, but he read it quickly. The others might be shorter, and there has to be a reason so many people like this story. There was certainly plenty of other _gay-stuff_ around these websites, so that couldn’t be its only appeal. He has curiosity and some time … _not much else_. He relents and clicks the button, moving him to the next chapter.

***

 

> _“_ _It was all so painless, falling in love with Dean_. _There was something so mindlessly ordinary about it, like Dean was just another fixture, just another glass in his cupboard that he had begun using.”_

            He had already gotten a through the second chapter, it was easy since he skipped over the sex scene; but he couldn’t help coming back to that first line. It amazes him, how someone could even look at his effigy and see it as worthwhile. To see him as ordinary as a glass, or as someone who was _easy_ to love, _painless_ —he wants it to be true, but he knows, that’s probably the most unbelievable line he’ll read tonight.

***

            The chapter rolls out just like the waves it’s describing. He looks around his room half way through—a little embarrassed about the smile that’s curling onto his lips. He’s _happy_ Cas got to see the beach. He’s _happy_ he’s taking pictures. He’s _happy_ that the guy got to see a crab and walk along the rocks.

 

> _"I really liked it there,” he murmured. “We should go back.”_
> 
> __"_ We will,” Dean had said softly over the crackly twang of a guitar, “I promise.”_

Dean's smile falls hard from his lips and cracks against his fingers, shaking on the mousepad.

__W_ hy did he have to promise?_

***

            He knew it was coming. He’s not stupid. All those years of learning lore made him pretty adept at dates and historical facts. He knew the military draft would come up somewhere in this story; and he knew that the fictional-him was probably going to be the one to go. Cas might be a warrior of heaven, but Vietnam was a _human_ battle. He knows that these writers most likely wouldn’t make the angel participate in that … even if the story is in _alternate universe,_ or whatever they call it. It just wouldn’t make sense. Dean’s the grunt. _Not Cas._

***

            He could barely read about the dreams. The war—the death, that was all _nothing_ to him. But the _dreams_ : Cas— _Cas falling apart_ , bloody and broken. Dean sits on his bed, staring at the laptop from across the room. He had to walk away. He couldn’t watch himself hurt the guy, not again … even if it was the fake-him and a dream-Castiel. _Dean was still hurting the angel._

***

            He did the right thing by leaving. He had to. No one else gets it … the comments are angry.

            _He_ gets it. _This Dean had to leave him._

***

            It’s hard for him to imagine—it’s probably the hardest thing; Cas, looking thin and weak. He has seen him bloody, sure … _hell,_ he’s seen him _dead._ But _weak?_ Never.

            The story says he’s dying; but Dean knows … even if he does, Cas will always come back. _That’s just how it is._

***

            The future Castiel that he met rushes back to him—the drugs, the orgies, the maniacal laughter. That’s who Balthazar is describing to the fictional-him. No matter what words are actually on the screen, that’s all Dean sees. It’s just _his_ angel, wrecked by the humanity he fell trying to save.

***

            _This_ Dean is better than him. Even though it took him too long, he’s still is putting Cas first. He’s thinking of his best friend before himself.

            He smiles when he reads about the projector and the footage of their time at the beach. He should take the real-Cas to the beach, or to a movie sometime _… if he can._

***

            He hears his own voice sing the words. He has sung the song before—in the Impala, in the shower when Sam was out on a run. It surely wasn’t one he sang often, but he’s sung it. It’s a song he knows Cas would probably like too. The _real Cas_.

***

            _The waves crash._

_The monitor flat-lines._

            Dean feels himself sink.

 

          

 


	2. Realization

            It took him three hours to convince Sam that he’s capable of going out by himself

            “Sammy, it’s a grub-run. I _promise_ , I won’t kill the pimply faced teenager at the drive-thru.”

            “Just let me go with you!”

            “Sam! I swear to god, I just need to get out and get some fresh air, and _you_ breathing down my neck the whole time won’t help a _damn_ thing!”

            Sam relented. He let his brother go but Dean’s phone _pinged_ with a new text every five minutes as a consequence. _An hour._ He just needed an hour.

The gas station is nearly empty except for one other guy mixing half a gallon of creamer with his day-old coffee. Dean walks over to the freezer cases, looking for a decent case of beer. He wants something a bit better than the cheap piss-water Sam always buys. He might not have much time left, _might as well drink like it._ He scans the selection, completely underwhelmed by the choices. He backs up and looks around, hoping the other cases might have something that will redeem this place. _No_ , just some frozen meals and milk.

            One of the cartons is cracked. There’s a pool of white collecting on the floor.  

Dean wonders for a moment _why_ shards of glass aren’t glinting around it. Why he doesn’t hear the numbers being called from across the room.

            “Excuse me …” The man with the coffee is attempting to push past Dean to one of the freezers.

            He snaps back to reality, nodding and moving out of the guy’s way. In another moment, he has a case of beer in hand and is heading for the cash register.

_That damn story._

***

            There isn’t a place on this earth that will ever feel more like home. The worn leather of her seats hug him tight. His baby welcomes him—not caring about the mark or all that he’s done. She loves him unconditionally. He nestles in, leaning his head back as he chews on the last bite of his burger. It’s easier in here. He can drive away if he wants to. He can go _towards_ something if he wants to. In here, he has choices, and the only one he’ll ever let down is himself. He hums as he swallows his food—trying to ignore the hunger that’s still writhing inside him. The sound vibrates his ears and fills the cab up with an ease that he’s been missing for some time. He hums again—longer, slower, letting his mind wander back to the gas station, the milk, the story _. He would have liked to own a motor cycle_. His thoughts drift with the noise thrumming from his throat. _Hell_ , _racing them sounds like it would be a crap load of fun._ _He would probably be good at it too._ Dean thinks about Sammy coming out to watch him race—he would still have Jessica around of course. If _he_ were care free enough to race motorcycles, well, there probably wouldn’t be monsters in the world. Cas could come and watch too—if he wanted. He would probably be confused by the whole idea: strapping yourself onto a hot engine just to whirl around a track at deadly speeds. _His_ Cas wouldn’t understand that, but he’d be happy to see him try. Dean would have loved to be able to share those moments with the guy and his brother. _Hell,_ he would just like to be able to love and care for someone like the fictional-him did. He’s too selfish for that though. He’s too dependent to let any of them go.

  

>   _Wise men say …_

           

         The tune carries in his head. The words mock him. He’s not wise, neither was his father. He was never told not to rush into love, just not to love all together. Loving someone would get them killed.

 

> _Take my hand_ …

           

 _Has he ever really held anyone’s hand?_ _Anyone who wasn’t dying?_ Even the fictional-him couldn’t manage … only gripping tightly to Cas when it was too late. _He was such a fucking, idiot. He wasted so much time._

 

> _Take my whole life too …_

           

           That’s all he has left to give at this point … and that’s not worth anything. _God!_ He’s wasted all his life, saving his own ass—depending on his brother, making Cas fall … and all for what? To make them feel guilty when he fucks up for the final time? Making them have to take him out once and for all?

 

> _Like the river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things, are meant to be …_

_  
_

            What was his life meant to be? Who was meant to gain from it? _Anyone_? No …

            He feels his eyes burn, and even now, alone in the only safe place he knows, he chokes back the tears. _He can’t cry._ He doesn’t deserve it. He would only be doing it over himself anyway. _Fuck!_ What’s wrong with him? He can’t stop this self-absorbed pity—when there’s Sammy to think about, when there’s Cas and his fading grace. Cas is dying! Dean straightens his body, choking on the spit that’s pooling in his mouth. _Cas is dying._ He knew that, but he feels like it’s only _just_ sinking in. Cas's grace is borrowed… or _stolen,_ however you want to look at it; but it won’t last. If he doesn’t get his own back, _he’ll die._ He’ll _actually_ die! And if Dean dies, or loses himself to the mark, the angel won’t have a charge anymore. There'll be no reason for God or, _whoever_ , to bring him back again. _Cas is actually dying!_

            The tears fall. Dean feels himself break like water on rocks. He can see him now—really imagine him, weak and withering, gurgling on his last breaths. _What would he do?_ What would _he_ do to ease his pain? There is no song he could sing to him. There isn’t any film he could play … does he even have any pictures of Cas? He doesn’t have anything to share with him—nothing, even the mark on his shoulder is gone! Dean buckles in the middle, lurching forward to pound the steering wheel. His forehead presses into the backs of his hands, and he chokes. He spits out words that mean nothing. _Nothing_ —just like him. Cas is dying and he has given him nothing. He’s ripped his wings away, pushed him out into the cold—called him childish and then turned his back. He turned his back on the one person who brought him out of hell. He saved Sammy for him, he’s done _everything_ —given _everything_ , and Dean doesn’t even have a picture. He doesn’t even have a song.

            “ _Dean_?”

            Dean jumps, jolting back in his seat and pressing against the door. Castiel is staring at him from the passenger side, his eyes curling with the sight of his friend’s tears.

            “Are you alright? I heard you praying …”

            Dean can only shake his head and turn away, trying to hide his smeared face.

            “You _weren’t_ praying?”

            Dean huffs and shakes his head again, still jolting from his run away breath.

            “But …” Castiel sounds confused, and he probably is. Dean is confused too and horribly uncomfortable that the guy is seeing him like this.

            “I’m f-fine Cas.” Dean chokes, “You can go.”

            Castiel is still, and Dean feels his weight pulling down the Impala’s suspension—he knows the angel isn’t going to leave.

            “Dean … you’re _upset_.”

            Dean feels the words inch into him like worms in rotted fruit, digging away and forcing out more hurt, more disgust, and he feels more tears squirm from his squinted eyes.

            “Is this because … because of what happened the other night with Claire’s attackers?”

            Dean breathes in, low and rattled. He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t move. Cas is so quiet, it almost makes him look over to see if he’s still there.

            “No … this is something else, isn’t it?” the angel whispers, narrowing his eyes.

            Dean only stares out the window; the outside looks blurred and unfamiliar.

            “It couldn’t be _Sam_. You would say if something were wrong with him …”

            The angel continues with his deduction, and Dean finds he’s calming with the sound of his friend’s voice. It’s melodic and peaceful, like water … _like a river_.

            “You don’t cry often. It has to be something serious for you to be so upset, but if it’s not Sam and it’s not the mark …” Castiel strains with his thoughts.

            Dean finally feels him move, shaking the cab a bit as he readjusts, as if he can fidget into Dean’s brain and pull out the roots of the problem.

            “Dean, tell me what’s troubling you.”

            He can’t. He just can’t.

            “ _Dean?”_

            He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to stop these damn tears, but they won’t go away. He’s too far gone.

            He listens to Cas sigh. He sounds heavy, like he’s tired; but he _shouldn’t be_ … not unless his grace is wearing thin. _Is it already happening? Is he running out of time?_

            “Dean, shall I stay?”

            “ _Fuck!_ ” he barks out in a sob. Castiel flinches as Dean breaks down again. “I’m so sorry, Cas!”   

            The angel reaches out to him, laying his hand on Dean’s shoulder as he shakes and cries. He doesn’t speak—maybe he doesn’t know what to say; but most likely, he knows Dean just needs him to be there.

            “I don’t have _anything_ … I don’t have anything to give you …” he spits between spasms, and he feels the angel’s fingers grip him tighter. “I don’t have anything!”

            Castiel slides across the seat, closer to his side until Dean can feel the warmth from his body, sneak across the remaining gap between them. “You don’t need to give me anything, Dean.”

            “But you’re _dying!_ ” Dean yelps, finally turning to look at the large blue eyes, much closer now than they were a moment ago. He takes in Castiel’s face … it isn’t withered and the grip on his shoulder isn’t weak—but, there’s a dimness swimming in and out of the waters that wash him over, confirming Dean’s fears. His angel is fading away.

            Castiel softens, smiling a little while staring at the man. “ _Not yet_.”

            Dean blurts out an annoyed laugh, rolling his soggy eyes and shaking his head. “ _Yet?_ Do you hear how fucked up that is? _You_ shouldn’t be dying at all! You should be in heaven! I shouldn’t have made you … I shouldn’t have—” Dean chokes.

            “My not being in heaven is _not_ your doing. You know that.”

            Dean knows that others were involved, but it _is_ mostly his fault.

            “ _This_ … all this can’t be about me. What is really going on?”

            Dean shoots a watery glance to the angel at his right, feeling his jaw slack a bit. “Of course this is about _you_!”

            It’s Castiel’s turn to gape. “I—I don’t understand.”

            “You’re dying, Cas … I can be upset that you’re dying! You mean enough for me to be pissed off about that!”

            The angel doesn’t blink; he only cocks his head to the side and leans in closer to the man—trying to find some comprehension in Dean’s eyes. “So … you are crying over _me_?”

            “Fuck! Cas, _yes!_ Okay! You happy? I’m crying like a god, damn baby over _you!_ I’m sad because your grace is about to crap out and not only can I not do _shit_ about it, but I’m so fucked up, you have to worry about _me_ instead of yourself! Instead of Claire or heaven—I’m fucking balling my eyes out because I’m screwing you over right and left! And you’re so, damn, _good_ … you just let me!”

            “I don’t let you do anything Dean. I _want_ to help you. That is _my_ choice.”

            “Fuck _choice_!” Dean punches the steering wheel again with heel of his hand. “You’re _still_ dying! You’re dying and I can’t even give you anything to make you feel better!”

            “Why would you give—”

            “Because that’s what people do, Cas! That’s what friends do when one of them is fucking losing everything! They help and they give each other things to try and make it easier!”

            “How would that help?”

            Dean stares up at the roof of his car, searching for the words that will make sense to this clueless, angel.

            “I don’t understand what you could give me that would make passing easier, unless you had my original grace—but of course, I _wouldn’_ t be dying then.”

            Dean sighs, slumping into his seat, feeling drained and exhausted from the conversation, from the tears, from the lack of sleep— _everything_. “Never mind, Cas.”

            “I’m sorry, Dean … I just don’t know what you could give me that would lessen my death.”

            “It doesn’t matter.”

            “It obviously does if it’s causing you this much torment.”

            “I said, _never mind!_ ”

            Cas presses in. “Dean?”

            “I don’t know, Cas! I don’t know what I’d give you! That’s the whole fucking point! I can’t give you anything because all I’ve done is take, take, take!” Dean booms, busting through the lump in his throat, replacing it with anger and bile. “And then I _lost_ everything! I lost it all! So I can’t give you anything but more crap to clean up when I’m gone! _I got nothing_!”

            “I don’t want anything from you, Dean. You have already given me so much … I wish you understood that.”

            Dean turns and looks at his friend, hoping to see sarcasm strewn about his expression, but of course, the angel is serious. “If you think I’ve actually been good for you, then I’m sorry for _that_ most of all.”

            A silence settles over the cab and they sit there a moment—trying to sort through the words that hang between them, but Dean can tell that Cas is uneasy. The guy won’t relax until he understands this a hundred percent. Dean thinks they might be here until they _both_ keel over.

            “Can I ask … what started all this?” Cas shifts again against the leather and Dean eases at the familiar sound of his coat, rustling beside him.  “Surely, you have more pressing matters than my eventual demise.”

            “Cas …” Dean slides further, until his neck is crooked against the seatback. “You really need to realize that you _are_ a pressing matter to me.”

            Castiel turns and slumps a little in his seat as well, leaving them both looking deflated and tired. If Dean wasn’t still so angry with himself, he might have laughed. But instead—he stays still, stewing more in his own self-pity.

            He listens to the angel breathe, thanking anything divine that it doesn’t sound gargled or raspy— _it’s clear._

            “Dean?”

            “Yeah?” he sighs, finally gaining some composure over himself.

            “What _would_ you give me … if you could?”

            Dean turns and looks at his friend. His blue eyes stare ahead, dancing back and forth a little, exposing his own nerves with the question. Dean can’t help but laugh.

            “I don’t know, man” he finally says, settling back into place. He joins the angel in staring out the windshield.

            Cas sinks beside him and Dean instantly feels guilty.

            “I—I wouldn’t know what to get you, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, maybe? Or a burger.”

            Cas smiles and Dean grins as he hears the content, little puff of air escape the guy’s nose.

            “I _do_ like burgers, when I can taste them.”

            “Yeah …”

            “What else?”

            Dean laughs, “Now we’re just getting greedy!” Castiel blushes and tosses him a quick glance. He sighs and thinks for another moment, understanding that his friend _really does_ want to know. “Maybe a cat … or something with bees on it.”

            “A beehive, perhaps?”

            “What the hell is a dying angel going to do with a beehive?” Dean chuckles, looking over at his friend, wondering how long it’s been since he saw the guy genuinely, grin.

            “What would I do with a cat?”

            “It’s more cuddly than a beehive.”

            “True.”

            Castiel sits up once more, obviously enjoying the ease that rests between them now. As he straightens out, Dean feels hidden in his shadow, allowing his shell to finally crack … he lets himself be raw and exposed, just for a moment, _just this once_. They’re two dying friends in the safest place on earth. _What does he have to lose?_

            “I’d sing you a song.”

            Castiel locks up and Dean feels him gazing down at the top of his head, but he doesn’t move.

            Dean holds onto the bravery that made him say it—it might be the only thing he can actually give away—something he wasn’t even aware he had.

            “ _What_ … what song would you sing?”

            Dean laughs, knowing that might be the first question the angel asked. He reaches over, still resting low in the seat, and lays his hand on top of Castiel’s.

            “You’ve heard of Elvis, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certain quoted areas are of course from Twist and Shout: I do not claim ownership of anything but my own work!  
> Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr: castiel-left-his-mark-on-me. Please take a look at my other works as well ... many more feels, hottness and angst!


End file.
